


Losing a Friend, Gaining a Team

by Kc749



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 20:36:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1483057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kc749/pseuds/Kc749
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Team fic set some time after Episode 3x17, Root Path. How the team might help Root cope after losing a friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing a Friend, Gaining a Team

As it turns out, despite how little she actually weighs, Root is ridiculously hard to hold onto when she’s struggling. Reese catches an elbow in the side of the jaw and almost drops her at the shock of pain that explodes all the way through his teeth and sinuses. Root is yelling, half incoherent with exertion as she tries to get free of his grip and reach her young Japanese friend.

John desperately pulls her back, knowing that at this range, that bomb vest is almost as likely to kill them as the kid it’s strapped to. Finch is in his ear, calling for him to get out of there, and Shaw is still five minutes away. Which is about four minutes and fifty seconds too far.

The phone rings.

Reese drops, turning so that Root will be shielded by his larger frame, and the incongruity of trying to keep this woman safe after their history isn’t lost on him despite the seriousness of the situation. The force of the blast hits them like a physical thing, knocking breath from their lungs and followed by a huge wash of heat. Root’s entire body stiffens under him for a second, and then all the fight goes out of her.

Finch is in his ear, anxiety in his voice as he asks if they’re alright. Reese responds distractedly, standing and staring at the place where the kid was sitting in a chair. There’s very little left, and none of it recognisable. Shaw approaches from the other side of the blast, gun out but held at her side, so Reese knows she’s assessed the situation and decided the threat is mostly over.

Root hasn’t gotten up off the ground. She’s sitting, knees pulled up to her chest and arms on them, staring blankly at the place where a living, breathing teenager had been just moments before. Shaw approaches them, looks to John first who gives her a shrug to indicate that he’s fine but has no idea what to do about Root. There are sirens in the distance, getting closer by the second. Shaw goes to one knee, says Root’s name. There’s no response.

A momentary flicker of indecision crosses Shaw’s face, and then she reaches out and pokes Root in the right side of her chest, where she still has a healing bullet wound. The other woman flinches, then her eyes move to look at Shaw. They’re a little less blank, although maybe that would be preferable to the rage that begins to show.

“We need to go,” Shaw says. “If the police find you here they’ll try to arrest you. Since I doubt the Machine wants you to start killing cops, you need to let us get you out of here.”

The anger stays in Root’s eyes, but she climbs to her feet, looking disdainfully at the hand Reese offers and roughly pulling her arm out of Shaw’s grasp. She’s not content to let them lead, and instead stalks away toward the nondescript grey Sedan that she’d been using on another job when the Machine first alerted her to the danger to her young friend.

Shaw gets there first and climbs into the driver’s seat, unwilling to let Root drive when it’s clear she’s in shock. Reese climbs into the back without comment, and they drive away just as the fire trucks arrive on scene.

*******

At the library, Finch approaches, tries in his own clumsy way to console Root, but she just shoulders past him and sits in the chair he just vacated. Her fingers type at his keyboard, sounding like machine gun fire. He wisely doesn’t protest her appropriation of his spot, instead mentioning quietly that he’s going to take Bear for a walk. Reese immediately volunteers to go with him. Shaw watches them go, then pulls a chair up beside Root and waits.

She doesn’t understand much of what Root is doing, but the results are nothing short of amazing. In less than ten minutes, she’s got grainy footage of Daizo’s killers as they manhandle him into position. A window on one of Harold’s screens runs a facial recognition program. In short order, each of the three men are identified, and Root has addresses, phone numbers, even data about their families.

It’s this last part that worries Shaw; she knows herself that the need for revenge can cause you to do some deplorable things, and it’s unlikely that those family members had anything to do with the attack. It occurs to Shaw to wonder whether the Machine is telling Root this, but she knows that asking won’t help. Maybe a different tactic will.

Shaw stands and moves toward a wall, which like all the others is covered in bookshelves. She reaches up and in, pushing a hidden button. The bookshelf slides to one side, revealing a small pantry. Immediately to the right as Shaw enters is an impressively well stocked liquor cabinet. She grabs a bottle of whiskey and a pair of beers out of the bar fridge, as well as a few shot glasses.

When she sets down the alcohol on the desk, Root glances at it and then gives her a look of derision. Shaw feels a flash of irritation.

“They want to draw you out, so you’re going to play into their hands? Thought you were supposed to be smart,” Shaw says with scorn in her voice.

“I can take care of myself,” is the response, seeming oddly juvenile to Shaw. Like a little kid insisting they can stay up late just fine, or like a drunk saying that they’re perfectly fine to drive even if they can’t manage to start the car.

“Thought you were letting ‘Her’ tell you what to do,” Shaw responds, waving at the ceiling and then opening the beers and removing the seal on the bottle of whiskey.

Root’s eyes lose focus, but not as if she’s listening to her God. It’s easy enough for Shaw to tell that she’s seeing her friend before he died. Shaw knows; she still sees Cole’s face every day, hears him tell her he didn’t need to be a hero for everyone ( _just yours_ ), the light fading from those expressive eyes.

“I can’t tell you that it’ll ever stop. It doesn’t stop hurting, when you lose people. It’s why I have so few to care about.” Shaw slides a shot and a beer closer to the other woman. “All I can do is try to show you how to numb it a bit.”

Root’s eyes flicker between the alcohol and Shaw a couple of times before she swallows hard and then reaches for the shot, tipping it back. She takes it like a pro, except for the disgusted look on her face. A third shot glass, full almost to the brim, sits in front of one of the monitors. Shaw clinks it with her beer and then does the same to the one in Root’s hand, before taking a long swig.

*******

After four shots and two beers, about an hour after having sat down, Root finally leaves the computer, standing (somewhat unsteadily) and walking away without comment. Shaw makes to follow, stops and shrugs, then grabs the now half empty bottle of whiskey. They thread through the halls until it becomes apparent where Root is heading, causing Shaw to raise her eyebrows almost to her scalp. Root shows no hesitation as she walks into the cage she’d so recently been stuck in, just wanders over and sinks onto the ‘bed’, turning to lie on her side facing the door and curling into a fetal position. Her eyes barely blink.

Shaw sets the whiskey on the table, then wanders along the walls, scanning the titles. She’s not a big fan of books, but she has had to read some for her job. None of these are all that interesting to her. Though… “Wow, haven’t seen this book for a while.” She holds up a copy of Goblins in The Castle, by Bruce Coville.

Root’s eyes glide over and rest on her. “Your father gave you a copy. ‘To Sameen, with love. May you remember the lessons inside this book: Don’t judge solely on appearance, Don’t give up, Don’t be afraid to have adventures, and above all, Always stand by your friends.’”

Shaw stares at her for a minute in shock. “How the hell do you know that? Word for word, too, that isn’t a coincidence.”

Root shrugs. “It’s your copy.” She twitches a finger, presumably telling Shaw to turn to the front of the book. Her father’s writing hits her like a blow to the chest. She sinks into a chair, staring blankly.

“It was collected at the scene after the car crash. Whoever was working evidence collected it, labelled it, and it sat there undisturbed for more than fifteen years. I took it along with anything else I could find about you when I was looking into Cole’s past. It made sense to try to get to know a potential adversary.” Root watches her companion for a bit, then says “I think maybe you need that whiskey now.”

Shaw reaches out and grabs the bottle, taking a couple of strong pulls. She turns the book over in her hands, seeing old scars in the hardback, the dog ears on the pages that her father had simply sighed about. “Wait, this has a label. A library one! You labelled my book?” Shaw glares at Root. “You should try having some respect for other people’s property.”

Root rolls her eyes. “Harold knows this place better than anyone. He’d have noticed a book that wasn’t labelled, Sameen. I had to make it look like it fit in. I didn’t know if you would take it back, but I had a feeling I’d get hit if I told you I’d had it in my possession. I was hoping you’d notice it yourself and I could say I hadn’t seen the inscription.”

Shaw kind of wants to get mad at Root for planning on lying to her, except the other woman is right, she probably would have been pissed. At least the hacker is talking now, a big step up on her earlier near-catatonia.

There’s a noise in the hall, and then Bear lopes in, one of his favorite squeaky toys in his mouth. It’s squeaker-less now actually; the dog has an unerring way of chewing out the small plastic squeakers and leaving the rest of the toy more or less intact. He drops the toy in favour of nudging Shaw’s hands, looking for attention. She gives it, of course. When she finishes scratching his ears he licks her hand once, then goes over to where Root is.

His tactics with the hacker are different. He sits beside the bed and then rests his head against her arms, staring at her. Root has gone back to staring into space. Bear can obviously sense her distress, and has decided it’s his job to fix it. When she doesn’t move he shifts infinitesimally closer, nose almost touching her chin. Her eyes flicker to him slightly, and then an exasperated sigh escapes her and she gives his head a perfunctory pat. Not satisfied with this, he shifts closer again.

Shaw knows it’s coming, knows what Bear’s next stage of attack will be. He’s used it on her enough when she takes him overnight and isn’t awake at whatever time he decides breakfast is. Root never sees it coming.

A long pink tongue darts out and swipes from the bottom of Root’s jaw all the way up to her ear. She lets out a startled “Hey!” but the dog has already bounded back several steps, rearing up and wagging his tail, ears clearly speaking of amusement.

Root rubs the side of her face furiously, disgusted. “Gross, Bear. What did you do that for?” She shoots a look that could kill at Shaw, who’s furiously trying not to laugh and failing.

“The expression on your face was priceless,” Shaw protests.

“You could have warned me.”

Shaw shrugs, unrepentant. “I got tired of playing therapist, Bear wanted a turn. Teamwork, you know.”

The distinctive sound of Harold’s footsteps comes from the hall, and he stops and peers into the cage. “I see you helped yourself to the Glenlivet, Miss Shaw.”

“You can afford it,” she responds, taking another swig to prove a point.

Harold gives his characteristic eyebrow raise that says ‘I don’t agree with you but can’t see the point in arguing.’ His gaze turns to Root, and he awkwardly holds up an iPod and speaker combination. “I didn’t know what you’d like, so there’s over sixteen gigabytes of mixed music, from oldies to country to classical to death metal.” He looks troubled, like he’s waiting for Root to refuse.

She stares at him for a long moment and then nods, reaching out and taking the set from him. “I’m going back to work. If you need anything…” he trails off, gives a half shrug that probably hurts his back, and starts out the door.

“Thanks.” Root’s voice is quiet, not like her normal confident self. Harold just looks back, nods, and leaves.

Shaw stares after him. “What was that all about?” she asks curiously.

Root’s hand reaches out and runs over the stereo. “It was Harold showing me he doesn’t hate me nearly as much as he has a right to. And that he listens to everything, even things you’d think were pointless.” Her eyes flick over to Shaw. “You don’t have to stay and babysit me. I’m fine.”

“You think I’m here for you? I’m just catching up on some reading,” Shaw responds dismissively, waving the book in her hand, and then turns to page one.


End file.
